What If
by Rebekah Kroeplin
Summary: I moved to London for an art career. NOT to get mixed up with a narcissistic consulting detective. Follow me on my adventures with BBC's Sherlock Holmes and other characters! (SherlockxMolly mentions. Every chapter comes with ART or COMICS!)


**The beginning of a never ending story!**

**These short stories all are about my adventures with BBC's Sherlock and all the characters. I put myself into situations with the characters. Each time I begin, I ask myself . . . What If?**

**Enjoy!**

**THESE STORIES ARE BASED OFF OF SHORT COMICS AND DRAWINGS! See the bottom links...**

* * *

It was late afternoon already and I was sitting at Bart's on a high stool next to the counter top with a book in one hand and a coffee cup set down in front of me. I'd previously been sitting at home all by myself doing absolutely nothing when I got a call from John Watson, whom I met about a month ago when we ran into each other just outside the 3rd Street Café. He called to ask if I could meet him at Bart's around 4 o' clock, where he said he was sure to show up around that time with his friend Mr. Holmes. He being a blogger was interested in what I did as a writer and asked to swap notes and criticism. I agreed.

So here I was at Bart's sitting at a stool waiting for John and said Sherlock Holmes to arrive.

Molly Hooper, a shy pathologist, was here in the room with me as well. She occasionally glanced over and gave me a short smile, but didn't converse apart from that. She was sitting at her desk with mountains of paperwork. I glanced up at the clock. It was quarter to 4. He should be here soon . . .

Just then, the door banged opened.

"Molly, I need you to get me a decapitated head and a sliced up liver!"

It was Sherlock who stood in the doorway with his hands behind his back, surveying the room with that critical eye of his. Molly shot up from her seat and squashed her hands nervously to her sides. "Yes, of course," she replied and hurried to the back room.

Over Sherlock's shoulder, I could make out John standing behind him wearing a pale sweater and a green jumper. He didn't seem to care about the abruptness of their entry. His eyes found mine. I smiled and he smiled back.

"Hello to you too, Sherlock!" I called.

Sherlock looked at me, and then looked away. We had met previously when John, his girlfriend Mary and I were at a café again going over notes. Turns out Mary wasn't a writer, but enjoyed talking about the subject, despite it not being her forte. It was enjoyable, and then Sherlock appeared out of nowhere talking about grocery shopping, a serial killer and bad milk. We were introduced then.

He outright told me I was annoying.

John came towards me and I noticed then that he was carrying an expensive laptop. He set it on the counter and pulled up a seat across from me. "'Ello, Rebekah."

I put down my book. "Hey, what's up with you?"

"There isn't a lot going around, actually." He looked over at Sherlock, who was busy taking out microscopes and rifling up the papers on Molly's desk.

"Is . . . that good?"

"Not particularly." He turned back to me and smiled. "Want to get started?"

"Yeah, sure."

We had both brought out rough drafts and swapped them over the table. I read what he had on his laptop, taking notes with a little notebook I had brought with me. John leaned over the counter reading what I had. It was so funny seeing him like that, with his nose pressed into the pages of my story. His expressions would change drastically with each page.

"I don't know why you bore yourselves with teenagers, John."

I glanced up and saw Sherlock sitting next to me on the counter glaring into his microscope. "Your even worse company," I said.

He glared at me.

At that point, Molly came out from the back and gave him some type of lunch box. Sherlock took it away from her and extracted the severed head. He watched my reaction as he did this.

I nearly choked.

"Um . . ." Molly stood by, holding a clip board with one hand and flexing her fingers. "Sherlock?"

"Yes." He didn't make it sound like a question. More like a response.

"If was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

John and I looked up and starred at Sherlock, waiting for his response.

"Black, two sugars."

We all froze.

Molly's eyes got wide and her lips pierced together. "Um . . . okay."

She walked out of the morgue and Sherlock went back to what he was doing.

The seconds ticked by.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

John stood slowly from his seat, setting his papers down. "I'm going to go find her," he told me, then left.

The silence remained.

I couldn't take it.

I slammed my book down on the floor and shouted, "She was trying to ASK YOU OUT! Just shut up and GO WITH HER!"

He whirled around and jabbed his finger at me. "No!"

"You are so guarded all the time! Seriously, it's just coffee-"

"You are merely a foreign exchange student. You have no business interfering with my _contentment!_" he growled.

"It is _everybody's_ business when you . . . Wait."

Something clicked in my brain. Almost like an on switch.

"'Contentment' . . . was that supposed to mean something?"

". . ."

" Sherlock, do you _like Molly?_"

art/1-What-If-Sherlock-Lived-With-Me-396359279


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